


in which morrissey is a florist

by garageway



Category: The Smiths
Genre: Florist AU, High School AU, M/M, Sporadic Updates, This is terrible, giving the marrissey fandom the shitty cliche high school au we deserve, i live in america what is england even like, morrissey is also very dramatic, morrissey is very gay, probably out of character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:55:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garageway/pseuds/garageway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standing at the counter was a tiny, almost frail-looking boy. Apparently, however, he didn’t let his size stop him, because he still looked quite tough with his worn jean jacket (even if the sleeves had to be rolled up) and messy hair (even if it looked a bit too deliberate, as though he’d spent slightly too much time trying to look cool that morning) and one hand in his pocket (even if those hands were long, feminine, and delicate). He had a cigarette dangling out of one corner of his mouth. Cigarettes weren’t allowed in the shop. Morrissey didn’t say anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which morrissey meets johnny marr

A sudden jangle of bells roused Morrissey out of a light sleep. He quickly reopened the book that had collapsed on his chest when his catnap began and pretended to read through bleary eyes.

He could hear the stranger walking around the shop, see them out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t want to look up for fear of seeming rude -- that was always his luck. After a couple more awkward moments of desperately trying to ignore the customer, there was a quiet _ahem_ and then he had to look up.

Standing at the counter was a tiny, almost frail-looking boy. Apparently, however, he didn’t let his size stop him, because he still looked quite tough with his worn jean jacket (even if the sleeves had to be rolled up) and messy hair (even if it looked a bit too deliberate, as though he’d spent slightly too much time trying to look cool that morning) and one hand in his pocket (even if those hands were long, feminine, and delicate). He had a cigarette dangling out of one corner of his mouth. Cigarettes weren’t allowed in the shop. Morrissey didn’t say anything.

“Well, you’re going to ring me up, right?” the boy asked, tone light and teasing. Morrissey tried not to notice the curve of his lips and failed, flushing with embarrassment. His eyes darted down to the flowers in the hand of the other.

“Uh, yes, of course,” Steven said, rushing to do so. The boy -- technically a man, most likely, despite his small stature -- had picked out a bouquet of gladioli. They were quite large, of course, and a strange pick, but something about the choice made him smile a bit.

“Gladioli? They’re, um, they’re my favorites,” he said awkwardly, trying to make small talk.

“Ah, yeah,” the other said, and Morrissey still didn’t know his name, “my girlfriend’s, too.” The man scratched the back of his head, looking almost sheepish. Steven couldn’t help the modest disappointment he felt at first, but he crushed it immediately and kept wrapping up the purchase. 

“That’ll be about eleven pounds,” he said. The boy dug in his pocket for a moment and pulled out the money. 

“Thanks, uh,” he mumbled, eyes flickering down to Steven’s name tag, “Steven.”

Morrissey just nodded and hoped it wouldn’t be the last time the boy would come into his shop.

\--

A couple hours later, 7:00 finally came and Steven was free to close up his mother’s flower shop. After bicycling home he greeted his mother quickly and practically flew up the stairs to his welcoming bedroom. He dropped his bag next to the door and collapsed onto his bed. 

Sighing, Morrissey wondered for the thousandth time why his life was _like_ this. The (admittedly very cute) boy had come in, looking all apologetic when he mentioned a girlfriend -- why would he look apologetic if he didn’t realize Morrissey had a slight crush on him? Steven rolled onto his stomach, thoughts drifting towards just how attractive the boy had been, with small heart-shaped lips, high cheekbones, small frame… he shook his head. _No._ He was not allowed to have _another_ hopeless crush on some poor, unsuspecting straight guy. He forced himself to return his thoughts to decidedly less gay topics.

Even though they never got too many customers, at least not during Steven’s shifts (after school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and sometimes Tuesdays or Fridays -- it wasn’t like Morrissey got invited to many parties), there was something so _exhausting_ about it. Perhaps it was the boredom or the tension of waiting for someone to come in. He was really, _really_ not a people person.

He could smell dinner from upstairs, some sort of meat, and he wrinkled his nose. He crept back down anyways, though, grabbing himself some vegetables and casting disdainful grimaces at said meat as he edged around it. His mother rolled her eyes somewhat fondly.

“Steven, dear,” she began, “I understand that you don’t like meat.”

“Mum, it’s not that I _dislike_ meat, it’s that I’m _morally opposed_ to meat,” he sniffed reproachfully.

“Yes, that’s nice. Why don’t you go back upstairs?”

Morrissey just huffed and did so.

\-- 

“Hey, Steven! Wait up!” 

Morrissey paused and looked behind him. Andy Rourke was running towards him and he waved. 

“Hello, Andy,” Steven greeted the blond. “How are you?”

“I’m great, Steven,” he replied, slightly out of breath and looking suspiciously excited. “Hey, do you wanna go to a show with me tonight? A couple of my friends are putting it on.”

Morrissey considered this for a moment. “Um, sure,” he said. It couldn't be _that_ bad. However, immediately after saying this he realized that of course it could be _that_ bad and he began considering the hundreds of ways his evening could go wrong. “Actually, Andy, I --”

“Great, Steven! You need to get out of the house a little more,” he said sagely, wagging an accusatory finger at him, “and I think you’ll… enjoy their guitarist.”

“Oh, God, Andy, did you just _wink_ at me? I’ll have you know my life is challenging enough without you trying to set me up with every moderately good-looking male in the city, and --”

Andy simply cut him off again, a mischievous grin plastered to his face. “I’ll see you tonight, Steven.” And then he was off, jogging back towards his next class. Morrissey sent a silent cry of _Why me?_ to whatever deity watched over bequiffed teenage gay boys and slammed his locker shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh i like thinking about marrissey in my free time aaaand this happened???  
> basically a very self-indulgent slightly out of character cliche florist au, i dont know.  
> it will probably be updated occasionally. when i find time. i have a plot in mind but, yknow, you dont always feel like writing. so.  
> i should probably write longer chapters but im lazy  
> sorry for inflicting this upon you i mean no harm


	2. in which morrissey meets johnny marr for the second time

Morrissey sighed in frustration, practically ripping off the shirt he had put on and throwing it across the room. He stalked back over to his closet, scowling. It seemed to be suddenly devoid of clothes he would actually feel okay about wearing in public. Sighing again, he began to rummage through the blouses and shirts he had.

In the end he decided to simply settle for one of his many button-ups and pulled it on, fastening said buttons halfway up and tucking it into a well-loved pair of jeans. He styled his hair meticulously for the specific level of faux carelessness he desired and chose a necklace to wear. Finally, topping it off, he placed his thick-rimmed black glasses on his face. Steven wondered idly why he was so determined to look good tonight.

Just as he completed this routine, the bell rang. Morrissey closed his eyes and took a couple deep breaths before going to the front door, forcing himself to find some composure, walk at a reasonably non-panicked pace, and _not_ look like he’d just spent forty-five minutes freaking out internally.

“Mum, I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder, ignoring the genuine gasp of shock she uttered at these words with an unseen eye roll.

Andy, of course, was standing outside the door when he opened it. His friend nearly immediately grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the car; Morrissey stared long-sufferingly at the sky and let himself be dragged.

“-- And their guitar player, Steven, he’s just _amazing_ \-- wish I had him in my band --” Andy was babbling excitedly as Steven climbed carefully into the automobile’s passenger seat. He listened half-heartedly, trying to ignore the twisting knot in his stomach and adding “yeah”s and “hm”s at the right moments.

Morrissey found his thoughts drifting, imagining himself curled up at home with a book, a cat, some tea, and a record playing. To his great sadness, the daydreaming only served to make the drive to the venue go faster, and he found that he was crawling back out of the small car in no time and being led, dazed, into the crowd of a dark club.

“I’m gonna -- water,” Steven mumbled. He slid his hand from Andy’s grip and maneuvered himself towards the bar, asking the nearest bartender for a water with an anxious look on his face. He bit his lip and stared at the stage, wondering how quick he could escape this place. Morrissey took the ice cold beverage gratefully and then the lights changed and the band was walking onstage. A drunken shout or two sounded through the building.

“Hey, we’re the… well, shit, we don’t even have a name,” the man who must be the vocalist murmured into the microphone, smirking into the crowd. Then they were plummeting headfirst into their first song.

Three out of four members of the band were pretty alright; one out of four was _fantastic._

Their guitarist stood on stage, cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. He rocked his hips side to side and generally stayed in the background, incredibly unassuming for a guitarist. And his guitar playing was beautiful.

One hand was moving effortlessly up and down the neck, the other effortlessly plucking the strings, and _that_ was what made it so interesting: the intricate picking patterns. Even though the others in the band were playing their hearts out and mostly covering him, Morrissey felt as if they were invisible compared to the frail-looking boy.

And that was when he noticed the frailty. And the long, graceful fingers. And the hair falling in his eyes. And he realized that the guitarist onstage was the beautiful boy who had come in for flowers the previous day. And he almost fell out of his stool in his haste to slide to the front of the venue.

Suddenly, Steven found himself even more mesmerized; the black-haired guitarist was capturing all of his attention. The music he was producing was so melancholy, so bittersweet, so filled with a maturity that seemed far above the band he was playing with.

The man on stage opened his eyes when the song ended and, by some strange coincidence, they met Morrissey’s. His face lit up in recognition. He smiled and waved, almost looking shy. Steven waved back awkwardly, starstruck, knees suddenly weak. _God_ , he had it bad. He stared at the guitarist for a few more moments before tearing his eyes away and stumbling back through the crowd and to the bar.

“I, um, more water, please,” Morrissey ordered breathlessly, and sat down to try to comprehend what just happened. The boy from the flower shop was not only gorgeous, but he could play the guitar brilliantly, apparently. He _recognized_ Morrissey. He _smiled_ and _waved_ at Morrissey.

Steven felt he must be in a dream.

Finally, a little while later, their set was ending and Morrissey was at last free to use the bathroom. After sucking down seven glasses of water in the last forty-five minutes, he needed the break quite urgently.

Upon relieving himself, he was walking towards the door when it swung open and the guitarist -- of _course_ \-- entered.

He was clad all in black, with a turtleneck, faux leather jacket, tight pants, and a shiny necklace hanging near his collarbones. Dark, circular sunglasses were perched on his nose despite the lack of light in the venue. Morrissey felt his heart stop.

“Oh, hey! It’s, uh, Steven, right?” he greeted. Morrissey nodded, probably looking like a deer in headlights. “I never gave you my name, did I? I’m Johnny.” Johnny stuck out one of those thin-fingered hands for a handshake. Steven took it and tried not to enjoy the warmth of his skin.

“Hi, Johnny,” he said, feeling the way his tongue shaped the words and tasting it in his mouth. The name fit the boy.

“How did your girlfriend like the flowers?” Morrissey blurted, and immediately asked himself _Why the_ fuck _did I say that?_

“She adored them! I told you gladioli were her favorites,” Johnny answered exuberantly, seemingly unaffected by Steven’s awkwardness. And if Morrissey wasn’t in love before, well, he was now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to gabi u made me work on this thank u for your kind words


	3. in which johnny gets morrisseys number

Steven woke up the next day to a sickly thumping ache in his head. He wondered where it came from, vaguely, as all he’d had to drink the previous night was water. Next, he wondered if he was dying, but quickly discarded that thought. He’d been disappointed too many times before.

Presently the reason he wished for the sweet release of death was because of _Johnny_. Their conversation had been beyond awkward, but the boy hadn’t even seemed to mind. Steven had to admit that this was the first time he’d talked to someone new in a while, and the first time in an even longer while that the new person didn’t immediately decide they didn’t much care for him. Morrissey sighed, reflecting melodramatically on his pathetic life.

A knock sounded on the door, bringing Steven out of his wallowing. He sighed even louder, edging into ‘groan’ territory. His mother opened the door a crack then, worriedly peeking into the hypochondriac’s chamber. When she saw that Steven was laying on top of his sheets still wearing his threadbare pyjama bottoms (printed with small, colorful cats) and his New York Dolls shirt, she found herself sighing as well. She could already predict that he would be extremely difficult to talk to.

“Steven, dear,” she began hesitantly, “what’s wrong?”

“ _Everything_ ,” Steven replied extravagantly, rolling onto his back and staring blankly at the ceiling, hand flung dramatically over his forehead.

His mother rolled her eyes. “Would you like to go into detail?”

“No.” Steven glared petulantly at her from under his hand.

“Okay,” the woman said wearily, knowing that if he didn’t want to talk he wouldn’t. She turned to leave. Steven groaned loudly.

“There’s this _boy_ ,” he whined. “He’s so cute, and nice, and _straight._ ”

\--

Morrissey looked up from his book as he heard the bells tinkling above the door. Every time it happened, now, he found that his heart sped up just a little bit. He had firmly decided not to think about why that may be the case. An old lady with exceptionally vibrant red hair entered the shop, and Steven definitely did not feel disappointment ache in his chest. Definitely not.

A while passed after ringing her up. Steven tried to go back to reading, but found he couldn’t concentrate. He was determined not to think about certain adorable dark-haired guitarists, but his mind drifted in their general unnamed directions whenever it was left without stimulation. Morrissey wondered distantly how the boy’s hair smelled, and how cute he would look swimming in one of his own oversized shirts. The bell rang again.

This time, Morrissey’s racing heart was not uncalled for. In fact, it skipped a beat upon seeing who was there: the very subject of his self-indulgent daydreams, Johnny.

“Hi!” he greeted, slightly too loud, and cringed; Johnny just grinned.

“Hello, Steven! How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Morrissey answered, and his voice cracked. There was a moment of mildly awkward silence before he cleared his throat, blushing. “What about yourself?”

“Same here,” Johnny giggled.

“Are you here to get some flowers for your, um, girlfriend?”

Johnny shook his head in reply. “Actually, I came to see you,” he said. Morrissey’s eyes widened slightly behind his thick glasses.

“Oh,” he said lamely.

“Is that weird? I’m sorry, I know we've only talked a few times,” the other boy said sheepishly.

“No! No, not at all,” Steven said, ears burning. “I’m... really quite pleased.”

Johnny went back to beaming at him, making butterflies erupt in Morrissey’s stomach. “Great! I wanted to ask if maybe you’d like to hang out sometime, but I didn’t have your phone number or anything, so…”

Steven broke into a smile then, too, unable to stop himself. “Do you have pen and paper?”

“Yeah, uh, here…” Johnny replied, rummaging through the pockets of the jacket he was wearing and turning up a pen and scrap of paper. Morrissey took it, writing “MORRISSEY” and his phone number in his signature scrawl.

“Morrissey?” the petite boy asked quizzically.

“That’s my last name,” Steven answered. “I don’t really like my first.” He wrinkled his nose.

Johnny tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, Moz,” he said, smiling just slightly teasingly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s your new nickname!” he exclaimed seriously. “Moz.”

“Oh… alright,” the newly-dubbed Moz said shyly, eyes wide and cheeks tinged pink, and the pair sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Johnny looked at his watch.

“Well, I’m going to head out. I’ll call you later, Moz, okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

Johnny grinned and wiggled his fingers in a variety of a goodbye wave at him. Morrissey felt as though he’d been swept up in a tornado and thrown into a different, more satisfying life all of a sudden.

\--

That night, Steven had a strange, nebulous dream about a boy with hair like water reflecting a night sky and eyes like cinnamon and honey. He woke up feeling more alone than ever with the fading sensation of a delicate hand twined, sickeningly sweet, with his own. His heart ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you had to wait almost a month for this short crappy chapter i have so many regrets. sorry, school is ending soon so my lifes been a little crazy. never fear, though, for i am already working on the next chapter and im hoping to post it in the next few days! maybe something will actually happen in it. gasp.  
> also i didnt even revise this lol whoops i just needed to get something posted so id stop feeling guilty about not updating my terrible fanfic


	4. in which morrissey is melodramatic (again) and johnny shows up on his doorstep

Morrissey slammed his locker shut. His day had been _exhausting_. He’d been called on in a total of three different classes, which was approximately 2.9 times more than he was used to.

A crumpled piece of paper hit his head, flying past the heads of those actually involved in the paper war it originated in. A halfhearted apology could be heard from behind him and he just sighed in response.

As he was walking home, it started to rain. Morrissey momentarily considered screaming in despair. He glared at the ground, water peppering it and gradually turning the cement from a clinical white to the sickly color of weak coffee. He glared at the houses he passed, shoved together claustrophobically like books on a shelf but not half as lovely. He glared at the sky, a dreary grey smudge blanketing his surroundings as if to match his gloomy thoughts. He figured he would get home and write his night away, falling asleep on his typewriter and waking up with an ache in his neck and ink staining his face. It was an average, thoroughly dramatic Friday.

When he finally arrived at his house, it was empty; Steven’s mother must have been at the shop. He let himself in and immediately went to the cupboard to pile as many boxes of snacks and candy as he could in his arms, glancing around shiftily as if his mother would burst in at any moment and scold him for eating so poorly. Morrissey skittered up the stairs and spread a picnic for one on his bedspread and switched on the television.

He had been zoning out eating crackers for around fifteen minutes, not giving the television half but perhaps a quarter of his attention; some horridly depressing game show was playing, but he didn’t quite care enough to change it. And then the doorbell rang.

Well, so much for a peaceful one-man picnic.

Morrissey sighed heavily and trudged downstairs. How dare this fool interrupt his nightly session of despondency and overeating? He had been quite involved in thinking about his many shortcomings. He opened the door, staring at the intruder’s feet.

“Sorry, my mum’s not here, but --”

“Moz?”

He snapped his head up, locking eyes with none other than Johnny. The boy was soaked to the bone and looked slightly like some strange gangly bird that had just barely escaped drowning. And he also looked kind of adorable, a sheepish smile unraveling in the corners of his lips. Which were as soft a pink and as heart-shaped as always. Morrissey sucked in a sharp, shocked breath, the tips of his ears heating up.

“Er, hi, Johnny,” he stammered dumbly. “Um, what are you doing here?”

“Well, if you want me to leave, I can go,” Johnny replied nervously.

_Shit._ “No! No,” Morrissey said, sounding overly panicked at the thought.

“I mean, if it’s a bad time or something, y’know --”

“No! It’s not a bad time at all, I was just, um, eating… dinner?”

“Well, I can come by tomorrow, or something,” Johnny said, earnest and biting his lip. _Shit!_

“Come upstairs with me,” Morrissey blurted out. _Why, god?_ he wondered blankly.

“Okay,” Johnny answered, uncertain pout stretching into a smile and then a beam across his face. “Okay! That sounds great.”

Morrissey paused, and smiled back. He couldn’t help it. Seeing the boy’s grin was like laying in the grass under the warm sun. He gestured for him to follow and started back up to his room, grabbing a towel on the way there.

“So, um… dinner?” Johnny said questioningly, voice and mouth turning up at the corners.

“Yes,” Morrissey replied defensively. “This is a perfectly balanced and nutritious dinner.”

“Chocolate, crisps, crackers, and croissants. Balanced.”

“The four ‘C’s,” the other quipped, with a glance and smirk at Johnny that seemed to jokingly say he was a fool for not knowing about the true food pyramid.

“Whatever you say.”

They sat together on Morrissey’s bed for a while, absentmindedly watching the game show playing, eating crackers. Johnny was fiddling with the corners of the towel draped around his thin frame, seemingly lost in thought.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

“Moz, why are we watching this?”

“Um, I don’t know. I didn’t really care enough to change the channel, I suppose,” Morrissey answered, inwardly glowing at the use of the fond nickname.

“It’s _depressing_ ,” Johnny complained. Steven looked at him, awed.

“I _know_ ,” he said, nodding emphatically.

“Have you got any films?”

“Oh, yeah, loads. Right in that cupboard,” Morrissey answered, pointing to the cabinet below the television. “I’ve got _A Taste Of Honey_ , all the James Dean films, uh --”

“Okay, like, what’s the least boring?” Johnny was crouched at the cupboard now, eating from a handful of crackers and staring at the stacks of VHS tapes.

“Hey! None of those are boring, okay, they’re classics,” Steven said, offended.

“What has the most blood?”

Morrissey huffed haughtily, rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms. “Probably _The Shining_.”

“Oh, shit! I wanted to see that when it came out.” He scanned the titles with his finger, searching, before finding the film and sliding it out. “Is it any good?”

“Well, it’s Stanley Kubrick,” Steven said. Johnny stared blankly at him. “You know… the director?”

“No, I don’t know,” Johnny replied, shrugging as if Stanley Kubrick was an inconsequential matter. “I just know it’s supposed to be a pretty great horror flick.” He grinned devilishly.

“Well, yes…” Morrissey said, sighing, urging himself not to launch into a passionate rant and scare off one of the only people he’d really talked to in ages.

“Let’s watch it, then!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap i did not expect this to take this long oh my gosh. i didnt mean to take such a long break, jeez. not even going to make excuses omg. anyways i didnt know what movie to make them watch because i am decidedly Not an expert on british kitchen sink drama and i needed to choose something that i actually know about so i can have Plot in the next chapter. ANYWAYS. hopefully it wont take me 93 forevers to write the next chapter.  
> i hope the characterization in this is ok. i felt a bit iffy with it but i think it still turned out alright! i used to hate writing dialogue but this fic is making me like it :') and i had to add in the bit about junk food after reading the quote that said moz doesnt eat anything healthy, haha. <3 also: i wanted to get in the thought that johnny ~understands~ morrissey, so i hope i got that across. it will also play a role in the next chapter. :') have a nice day!!


	5. in which i get tired of naming my chapters like this

They’d barely started the movie when Morrissey had started talking. And talking.

“Did you know all the famous scenes from the movie didn’t even occur in the book?” he had begun. “No blood elevator, no axe-murdered twins, no ‘here’s Johnny’, no hedge maze…”

Johnny found himself paying more attention to the boy than the movie. It was like seeing him come alive for the first time, breathing and real. If he’d known that all he had to do was put on a movie, he would’ve done it ages ago.

“In the book, Jack actually orders everyone to ‘take their medicine,’” Morrissey explained.

“I think that sounds way cooler, actually,” Johnny answered thoughtfully, and Morrissey looked at him, bewildered.

“You’re actually listening to me?”

“Well, yeah. It’s interesting.”

Moz shook his head and started silently eating crackers. But it couldn’t have been more than five minutes later that he was rambling again.

“Hallorann doesn’t die in the book, either. And in the book, there’s this really great part where Jack hangs what he thinks is an abandoned wasp’s nest in Danny’s room, only for the wasps to return overnight and sting Danny! I’ve always found it disappointing that that didn’t appear in the movie, because I think Kubrick could have created such interesting symbolism with that.”

He sighed and came to a stop. _He looks so beautiful when he’s talking like that_ , Johnny thought -- his mouth and mind both going a million miles a minute, hands gesturing wildly as if to sculpt the scene out of the air in front of him, cheeks flushed, eyes alight like the sun shining through a drift of clouds on an otherwise blue day. And then Johnny wondered when he’d decided all this, when he’d noticed the fact that Morrissey’s lips were such a vibrant rose color.

Johnny knew he was interested in guys. Had known. But it had always just been a thing he kind of sensed. Now it was something he would actually have to acknowledge and think about. At the same time, though, it was tempting to just let it go and _not_ think about what it might mean. So what if he had a schoolgirl crush on Morrissey? It’s not like he’d ever have a chance to pursue it.

Except, he’d gotten Morrissey’s number. And searched for his address. And shown up on his doorstep in the rain. And was sitting on his bed kind of watching a movie and mostly watching Morrissey’s face.

Well, so what?

Morrissey probably didn’t even like guys. Okay, that was a total lie -- a guy who read _The Picture Of Dorian Gray_ while working in a flowershop probably did like guys. But still, he wouldn’t like a guy like Johnny. He’d probably like a guy that was sensitive and shy and clever, like himself.

Johnny was pulled out of his reverie when Morrissey sighed again. He did that a lot.

“This is bizarre, because we’ve only known each other for a couple days…” he murmured, staring at the ceiling. “But I feel as if you know me better than anyone else.”

Johnny blushed and looked away. It was unlike him to be so bashful. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he replied, just as soft. “I feel like it was meant to be.”

They were quiet for a few moments, looking anywhere but each other.

Then a loud screeching noise issued from the television and the softness was gone as they both snorted and started to laugh.

\--

Johnny’s eyebrows had been raised for the last twenty minutes of the movie. Morrissey kept looking over to check on them. As the camera zoomed in on Jack’s black and white face, he let out a gust of air.

“Well… that was… something.”

“Brilliant, right?” Morrissey leaned back against the headboard and sighed happily.

“Kind of crazy, but yes,” Johnny said, turning to grin at Steven. “What time is it?”

Morrissey looked down at his watch. “Uh, about five thirty.”

“Let’s go out to eat,” Johnny said, which was possibly the last thing Morrissey was expecting him to say.

“I’m sorry, what?” he spluttered.

“I know this great twenty-four hour diner,” Johnny told him, nodding emphatically. “And by great, I mean terribly trashy and greasy, of course.” Morrissey smiled down at his lap.

“Okay.”

Steven left a note for his mother (just in case) and grabbed an umbrella from the closet. Afterwards, he and Johnny set out into the dreary evening together. They shared the umbrella out of necessity, but Morrissey thought that perhaps they would’ve done so even if he’d been able to find another umbrella in the house. It was quite cozy under the umbrella next to each other; it was almost chilly out in the rain, so he told himself they needed to share the warmth.

“Here we are,” Johnny announced as they neared a dingy-looking ‘50s style diner. Morrissey raised an eyebrow skeptically as he entered behind him.

The lights throughout the building were flickering slightly. The white tiles on the floor appeared scuffed and dark, and the tables weren’t much better. The plastic covering on the stools and booths was cracked to reveal the spongy cushions beneath. Johnny waved to the waitress, a lady who was -- remarkably -- the exact person you pictured when you thought ‘waitress’. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, graying bun, and a pot of coffee was in her hands.

“Hello, Johnny. It’s been a while since you’ve been here,” she said in response to his winning smile. It seemed light enough, but the twitch of her eyebrow said that she wasn’t very pleased.

“Sorry, Betty,” Johnny said sheepishly. His smile cracked a bit under her passive-aggressive sternness. He glanced over to Morrissey and cocked his head, moving towards an empty booth by the window. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and fumbled with his lighter for a second to light one.

Morrissey looked at him while he stared out the window, thinking he was being slick enough; however, it seemed he was wrong. Johnny looked slyly at him while sucking on the cigarette, and Steven would swear his heart skipped a beat. Johnny took the cigarette between two fingers and offered it to Morrissey.

“Want a drag?” he asked, smirking. Morrissey shook his head, but took the smoke anyways. And now Johnny watched while he looked out the window and inhaled. Steven handed it back. Johnny looked like he was about to say something, but he saw Betty coming towards them before he could and grinned charmingly at her.

“Coffee, boys?” she said, brandishing a pot of very dark coffee. “Tea?”

“I’ll have coffee, please, and can you bring my friend here a menu?” Johnny replied.

“Yes, of course, dear,” Betty said, and then looked expectantly at Morrissey.

“I’ll have tea, please.”

After their drinks arrived, Morrissey started surveying the menu. To his surprise, they actually had some options without meat; he ordered waffles with chocolate chips. Johnny rolled his eyes fondly and ordered a veggie burger for himself. Morrissey widened his eyes.

“What, are you going to start a questionnaire on my protein intake?” Johnny said exasperatedly.

“No. I’m just surprised to find another vegetarian,” Morrissey answered.

He thought for what must be the hundredth time that day that he maybe had a serious crush on this kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this is... literally not at all how this chapter was gonna go??? but i kind of just let them do whatever they wanted to do. like johnny wasnt even going to have a crush on morrissey yet man. also obligatory "YOURE A VEGETARIAN TOO" scene. also also obligatory picture of dorian gray reference because basil is super gay for dorian. also also also sorry if there are some errors with the tense, i noticed a couple when i was editing it but i might have missed some.


	6. i like the picture of dorian gray too much

“We should do this again sometime,” Johnny said mildly, hopeful smile on his face.

“Definitely,” Morrissey answered. Johnny’s eyes lifted to the light over Morrissey’s doorstep and the moths flitting around it.

“Well… see you later?”

“Yeah. Yeah, whenever, Johnny. See you.”

Morrissey paused to look at Johnny for a moment before smiling and walking inside.

“Mum, I’m home,” he called after taking a moment to breathe. He felt like he could lift right off the ground, and that was totally cheesy and horrible -- he knew his mother would be able to sense these things. She hummed in response from the living room.

“I’m going to go have a shower and then go to bed, okay?” She hummed again.

Steven was halfway up the stairs when she asked, “How was your date, dear?”

Morrissey could feel his face heat up. “It wasn’t a date, mum!” he responded petulantly, and stomped all the way to the bathroom. He turned the water up to scalding hot and stared down at the ground, arms crossed, as it rained down on him.

“Shut up. This is stupid. Shut _up_ ,” he murmured to himself.

\--

“Hi,” a familiar voice said. Really familiar. Morrissey turned around so fast he practically got whiplash, finding himself face to face with Johnny. A grin immediately stretched itself across Steven’s face.

“Hello, Johnny.”

“This is your locker?”

“Uhh… yeah,” Morrissey said, glancing at the half-heartedly scrubbed away “fag” and “pansy” written on the front before moving his eyes to stare at the ground.

“I didn’t know you went here,” Morrissey said.

“I didn’t know you went here either!” Johnny responded, cheerful as ever, not noticing the homophobic graffiti on Steven’s locker. “Yeah, it’s cool that I found you here! I was wondering if you might be at a different school or something.”

“Nope, I’m here…” Morrissey shrugged, closing his locker -- and then Johnny’s eyes widened and he winced.

“Who wrote that?” he asked. His voice had some mixture of pity and anger. Steven shrugged again, eyes still fixed to the ground.

“Some brain-dead fool, I guess,” Morrissey answered, trying to smile but falling flat.

“As if that’s even an insult. There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Johnny said indignantly. Steven shifted his eyes back up to look at Johnny, scrawny and beautiful and _not homophobic_ and bristling with anger on Steven’s behalf.

“Hey, just forget about it, okay? It’s… inconsequential,” Morrissey said meekly. His eyes drifted back to the ground.

“Okay,” Johnny agreed, mouth still an upset moue and not looking especially convinced. He sighed. “Well, we can go hang out at your house, yeah?”

Morrissey’s face twisted apologetically. “No, I have to work at the florist’s today…”

“Oh! Well, I’ll come with,” Johnny said, grinning.

“It’s terribly boring,” Morrissey worried.

“I have homework to do anyways.”

“I’ll be there a few hours…”

“You can read to me or something,” Johnny retorted, determined. Morrissey’s stomach erupted into butterflies. “I’m coming with.”

“Okay,” Steven sighed.

“Awesome,” Johnny said.

So they walked side by side to the flower shop. Johnny was going on about some sort of guitar thing -- something about pedals, maybe. Morrissey wasn’t really sure what he was talking about, but he was excited, so he listened intently and tried to ask questions.

Once they were inside the shop, they both sat down to study. Morrissey finished first and pulled out his battered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. He was getting to his favorite part in the novel, and flowers always put him in the mood to read Oscar Wilde. Johnny finished up his work around fifteen minutes later, and looked expectantly at Morrissey. Morrissey glanced at him from over the book and smiled. Soon he had reached the scene where Basil confessed his love for Dorian.

“‘Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself.’”

“Holy shit,” Johnny said, already invested. “Basil is _so gay_.”

“I _know_ ,” Morrissey gushed.

“I see why you like this book so much now.”

\--

After a few more hours of reading and serving the occasional customer, Morrissey stretched and closed the book.

“Okay, my shift’s about over. You can… um… you can come with, if you want? Back to my house?”

“Yeah! Definitely,” Johnny said, grinning. Morrissey stood and started packing his stuff away. They left the store soon after, and Morrissey fiddled with the lock for a moment before turning to Johnny and smiling. Morrissey’s house was only a mile away or so. Conversation came easily, jumping from subject to subject with ease; they rarely came across a topic they couldn’t agree on.

“Do you wanna just watch another movie or something?” Morrissey asked once they had reached his house. Johnny nodded and reached into his backpack, pulling out a copy of a movie Morrissey knew only vaguely and grinning.

“I come prepared for everything,” he said.

“Oh? Do you have any chocolate?” Morrissey retorted. Much to his surprise, Johnny pulled out a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate.

\--

It was a familiar scene. Morrissey laying on his bed in his Dolls shirt and ragged cat pyjamas, girl pop on the record player.

“Dear?” his mother called softly.

“I think he might be… not straight,” Morrissey answered, glancing at her and back to the picture of James Dean on the wall. “He liked Oscar Wilde.”

Steven’s mother shook her head fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FIRST OF ALL...  
> what with starting 9th grade recently and being in marching band and just not having energy to do much at all, i stopped writing for a while. but i am BACK now, with my TRIUMPHANT and GAY return  
> this chapter is probably terrible though and i dont really want to post it oops. i wrote it very slowly over the course of the past however many months and i can barely remember what happened and finally i just got tired of trying to flesh it out so. here it is. im a bad writer everyone  
> as i said in the chapter title i just really love the picture of dorian gray and i had to throw in basils confession bc. im gay. the oscar wilde references symbolize how Gay they are.


	7. in which they chill in the flower shop and flirt

“Hey, I’m putting on another show tonight,” Johnny said from behind Morrissey’s locker door. Morrissey closed it and smiled -- weakly, but genuinely.

“Where at? I have to work at the flower shop again, but if it’s later on I guess I can go,” he said, yawning, zipping up his backpack and putting it on. He started to walk towards the exit and motioned for Johnny to follow.

“I’ll come with to the shop, if you want. It’s not until nine tonight, at the same place as last time.”

“Will Andy be there?” Morrissey asked. He didn’t particularly want to be alone at the bar again, anxiously sucking down glasses of water.

“I’m not sure,” Johnny shrugged back. By then they were out of the school building and going towards the road that led to the shop. As usual, it was grey and damp outside. Morrissey wondered if it would drizzle later or not. If it did, maybe he’d have an excuse not to go out. As much as he wanted to see Johnny playing again, the prospect of leaving the house occasionally seemed like too much to ask of himself.

“Do you think it’ll rain tonight?” he sighed.

“I hope not. But really, is the weather all you can think of to talk about?” Johnny teased.

“Sorry,” Morrissey said absently.

Johnny shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that, Mozza,” he assured him, grabbing his hand, squeezing it, dropping it. Morrissey’s heart skipped a beat as he did.

“I know,” Morrissey sighed again. “To be honest, I don’t really want to go out tonight. I’m feeling incredibly melancholy.”

“Aren’t you always?” Johnny joked, and finally Morrissey smiled again.

“Feeling incredibly melancholy? I suppose so,” he mused.

They engaged in small talk the rest of the walk to the flower shop and Morrissey’s mood lifted a bit. Johnny seemed to have a supernatural power to do that. Morrissey unlocked the door to the shop while Johnny stood behind him whistling. He read a book while Johnny did homework, too-thin legs crossed on the counter, still whistling. He put on a record and Johnny whistled along. Maybe it was the constant whistling that cheered him up. When Morrissey started to sing along, Johnny stopped and listened. Morrissey looked out the window while Johnny looked at Morrissey and smiled secretly.

“You’re pretty good,” he said nonchalantly, lighting a cigarette and sticking it in his mouth, the image of effortless cool. His head was resting on his hands -- he had a masterful way of smoking without his hands. Morrissey found it far more attractive than he ought to.

“Thanks,” Morrissey responded, trying for equally as cool and perhaps falling short. “I practice a lot in the shower.” He sounded deadly serious but the quirk of his mouth said otherwise and Johnny snickered.

“That’s where I practice guitar, too,” he said, and now they were locked in a game of who could keep the façade longer.

“The acoustics are better, right?”

“Good, but not quite as good as in your mum’s room.” Johnny took a drag.

“Oh, I know, I heard.” Morrissey looked sideways at Johnny, who plucked the smoke from his lips and grinned back at him. A moment later and they were both in hysterics.

“Yeah, okay, you win,” Johnny said, smiling around his cigarette as he took another drag. He offered it to Morrissey, who sighed and shrugged.

“I’m gonna die anyways,” he said before he took the smoke. This made Johnny laugh again and he watched Morrissey’s cheeks hollow out. If he were to be honest, that was why he gave Morrissey the cigarette. Morrissey coughed a bit and handed it back to Johnny, the way his eyes followed his movements not lost entirely on him. Wishful thinking, of course.

“I hate cigarettes,” Morrissey said.

“Me too, babe,” Johnny said back, far too cool and collected, far too ironic and smooth, far too  _ fucking attractive _ in all his underage rockstar glory. Morrissey just about jumped on him then and there, but a customer walked in to cut the tension just as it was about to crack.

“Welcome,” Morrissey called over to the elderly man who had entered. The customer smiled back, wary because of Johnny’s apparent delinquency. He smothered his cigarette on the counter and stuffed the butt in his pocket after one more deep drag.

“Hope that didn’t come off wrong,” he murmured to Morrissey, eyes glinting.

“I don’t know if it could,” Morrissey shot back with another sideways glance -- and if the tension before was just a coincidence, it couldn’t be unintentional now. Johnny thought guiltily of Angie. Obviously he loved his girlfriend of three years. Was it so wrong for him to playfully flirt with a new friend? He supposed it probably was.

When the time came to close up shop, Johnny left to his house and Morrissey to his own. Morrissey was left to call Andy and see if he was going to Johnny’s gig, which he was. Morrissey looked through his closet, throwing item after inadequate item onto his bedspread until his room was a natural disaster. He finally decided on a button-up, pink sweater, houndstooth blazer, and vintage jeans. After freshening up his quiff and affixing a gaudy brooch to his blazer, he felt ready.

“What are you wearing?” Andy said, perplexed but unsurprised, after Morrissey opened the door to him.

“My usual grandma clothes,” Morrissey replied, equally deadpan.

“You’re going to sweat to death,” Andy warned him.

“I don’t dance unless I’m alone or on stage,” he replied flippantly. Andy sighed and walked to his car. Morrissey called a goodbye to his mom before following.

“So you  _ do _ dance around your room in your underwear?” Andy asked, a good minute and a half later.

Morrissey shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Johnny said you guys have been talking,” he said next, as if this weren’t an incredibly shocking and distressing sentence to say.

“What? What’s he saying about me?” Morrissey asked. He may have been slightly caught off guard.

“He says you guys get along great.” With that, Andy pulled into the parking lot of the club. “Alright, get out of my car,” he ordered. Morrissey groaned and clambered out onto the asphalt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FICS NOT DEAD


	8. this chapter is literally not even done

As soon as they entered the club, Andy disappeared onto the floor. Morrissey sighed and headed for the bar. After getting a water and sitting for a few minutes, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Hey, you came!” Johnny said as Morrissey swiveled around to be face to face with his beaming face. His grin could probably create world peace and end world hunger, in Morrissey’s opinion. “Where’s Andy?”

“I don’t know. Selling his body on the dancefloor or something, I suppose.” Johnny let out a crack of laughter and knocked back the rest of the beer in his hand.

“Aren’t you a bit young for that?” Morrissey said with mock disappointment.

“Don’t chastise me! As if you don’t keep a bottle of cheap red wine under your bed,” Johnny said indignantly. “Anyways, I gotta go on stage soon. You want a drink?”

“I’m good.”

“Okay,” Johnny said, shrugging. “Hey, can I get another?” The bartender handed him a cold, dark bottle and Johnny winked to Morrissey.

“Musician’s perks?”

“Musician’s perks.” With that, Johnny waved goodbye and headed towards the stage. A few moments passed where he was out of sight before he reappeared, holding a guitar now; he lifted his beer and smirked in greeting to the audience. Then he flipped his sunglasses down (how did he see with them on in the dark?), shoved a cigarette between his lips and lit it (how long had he practiced that hands-free smoking technique?), and didn’t seem to notice the audience for the rest of the night.

Except for the few times Morrissey could swear Johnny’s eyes bore into him where he sat by the bar.

God, he was perfect.

An hour or so passed with Morrissey’s body glued to the barstool and his eyes glued to Johnny. Again he found himself mesmerized by the intricate melodies he fingered and strummed with such ease. He made it look easy, to chainsmoke and drink and slide your fingers up and down the frets while your other wrist flicked back and forth across the strings -- Johnny seemed made of liquid, and the rest of the band didn’t matter.

Then, as easily as he had caught Morrissey’s attention, he sauntered off the stage and right back over to Morrissey. During the journey he’d gathered a girl on his arm.

“This is Angie, my girlfriend,” Johnny said.

“Ah, hello,” Morrissey greeted shyly. “Do you like the flowers from my shop?”

Angie’s pretty face lit up. “Those come from you? They’re gorgeous.” Morrissey shrugged, and for a second it seemed they would descend into awkward silence.

“So, Moz, Angie and me and the band are going to that diner. I was wondering if you’d like to come with,” Johnny said. “You don’t have to, of course,” he added quickly. Morrissey was torn, because of course he wanted to spend time with Johnny, but he also wanted to go home and not have to talk to anyone. It was a dilemma.

“Yes, sure,” Morrissey’s treacherous mouth answered of its own accord. His head was still busy mulling it over. Johnny smiled at him, though, so now he couldn’t possibly go back on his word.

“Great! We’re just gonna get in the van in after we tear down our shit,” Johnny said. Morrissey nodded and sat back down. Angie sat next to him.

“So… what kind of music do you like?” she asked after a couple beats of silence.

“Er… New York Dolls, Bowie, Buzzcocks, Monochrome Set,” Morrissey answered uncomfortably. He shifted in his seat.

“Cool,” Angie said. Luckily, she decided to leave it at that until Johnny came back. Morrissey continued shiftily drinking water and wondered how he got into this situation.

“Alright, we’re getting out of here,” Johnny announced once he returned, snapping Morrissey out of his daydream. He and Angie hopped off their stools and followed as Johnny weaved through the crowd. Morrissey suddenly realized Andy wouldn’t know where he went, but he figured he was probably too fucked up to care. Such was the upside to having a friend who liked to party.

Johnny’s band’s car was kind of a mess. Bottles, boxes of rolling paper, crumpled up sheet music, wires, and bags of crisps littered the floor. Morrissey tiptoed his way through it, crouched awkwardly to avoid hitting the ceiling, and plopped into a seat after fussily brushing it off.

“Nice place you got here,” he said.

“Sorry about the mess,” Johnny said, twisting around to look at Morrissey from the front seat. “By the way, I don’t have my license.” And then he started the car and drove to the diner.

The journey was little less than perilous.

“Okay, kids, get out,” Johnny announced. Morrissey removed his hands from where they had been covering his eyes.

“Is it safe?” he asked. Johnny looked at him pointedly and rolled his eyes. The walk to the diner from the car wasn’t too long, but it was a little chilly in the night air. Few cars passed them on the way there. A different waitress was on her shift when they opened the door and entered the warm, yellow room.

“Hello, Diana,” Johnny greeted her with a winning smile. She returned it and walked over busily, seating them at a booth. Johnny and Angie sat suggestively close, Morrissey across from them and crammed into a seat between two other people; the other four of them immediately began an easy conversation; Johnny wrapped an arm around Angie and lit a cigarette, which dangled in his mouth as he talked (had he practiced that?); the two on either side of Morrissey ordered something made of a dead body while Johnny, Angie, and himself all ordered various sweet breakfast items.

Morrissey’s waffle had chocolate chips. That was the saving grace of a mildly terrible dinner. Dessert? Early breakfast? He wasn’t sure what time it was.

“What time is it?” he asked. Each other table member chimed in with a different witty answer. He looked at the wall towards a clock, which read eleven o’clock. _Jesus_. He would be there forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see  
> i got tired of looking at this and feeling guilty so im just posting it like this


End file.
